She was in. She’s easily my best wingwoman. She takes time out of the night to actively search with me, she keeps me on task when I’m not paying attention, she’s willing to relocate closer to cute guys, she acts as my defense against creepers, and she’s social yet knows when to discreetly disappear.

Fortunately, on Saturday night, our regular lounge was rammed. It was filled wall-to-wall with people – not to mention the entire population of the North Pole. I kid you not; there was a swarm of Santa Clauses, Mrs. Clauses, and elves. A Christmas party had arrived halfway through the night to add to the already packed venue, and I was repeatedly hit on by one of 15 Santas. Even excluding Santa’s village, there were plenty of people there from outside of our friend group.

“Oh! He’s cute!” my friend pointed out the same guy I had been looking at.

“I know,” I laughed at her enthusiasm. “I noticed him too.”

“Go talk to him!” she urged.

“I don’t know what to say,” I nervously replied.

What the hell is wrong with me? I thought. Since when do I have a problem thinking of something to say to guys?

“Come on, let’s dance closer,” she said as she took my hand and moved us toward the bar, near where he stood.

I was dancing right beside him when she began dancing away from us in attempt to motivate me to open my mouth. I could barely smile in his direction. I’ve recently noticed that, since July, I’ve been somewhat closed off to guys while out. I don’t approach them anymore, and although I respond in a friendly manner when they approach me, I aim to end the conversations they initiate as quickly as possible in order to get back to my friends. I’ve basically been residing in a there-is-only-one-guy-I-want-right-now-so-please-give-me-some-space-to-get-over-him bubble. I don’t like it. I like the version of me that wants to talk to attractive guys.

Thinking about this in the middle of a dance floor on Saturday night surely wasn’t helping my approachability, and I knew it. Although I had identified the issue prior to Saturday and wanted to address it, on Saturday, I was becoming suddenly aware that I felt unconfident in doing so. That bothered me. Clearly, the false leads and selective response rate had not only made me insecure with regard to the guy behind them, they had made me self-conscious with regard to other guys as well. I psyched myself out of talking to the guy beside me, and I was disappointed in myself because of it.

The night continued to beating music and photo-bombing elves, but I couldn’t let it go. I was irritated that I was letting residual feelings for a guy that doesn’t exist in my life right now impact my confidence and therefore my actions. I do not perceive myself as the type of girl that passively waits for guys to happen to her. I see myself as a woman that goes after what she wants. Not talking to this guy was not in congruence with that self-perception, and the resulting cognitive dissonance was killing me.

I said I was going to get over this guy, so I’m doing it, I sternly told myself. Relearning how to get someone’s number was a necessary step I decided I was about to take. I walked up to the guy I chickened out of talking to earlier in the night and tapped his shoulder from behind. I asked him his name. (Full disclosure: I told him he looked familiar, because he kind of did, but mostly because I needed an icebreaker.) We briefly talked about Europe, because he had recently been too. And, in less than two minutes, I had his card.

It was that easy. And that’s all I needed: to remember how easy it is to get a guy’s number, and the confidence boost that comes with it. It wouldn’t matter if nothing more resulted from the interaction. I had proven to myself that I am still fully capable of approaching cute guys, despite how harshly I was rejected by one. I was proud. I had more than obtained a phone number; I had preserved my goddamn character by refusing to take on the role of the poor girl that some guy didn’t want, and choosing to be bold instead.